


The Tiger's Teeth

by knucklewhite



Category: Into the Badlands (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Master/Servant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-19
Updated: 2016-03-19
Packaged: 2018-05-27 06:42:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6273820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knucklewhite/pseuds/knucklewhite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh, Sunny’s hands are loyal enough, but what about the rest of him? What about the parts that matter?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tiger's Teeth

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the inestimable [Callay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/callay/) for betaing this!

Quinn’s morning ritual is regular as clockwork. When the sun rises, he does too. He takes his morning coffee on the balcony, so he can observe the great machine that is his estate as it hums and purrs into motion: cogs toiling in the fields beyond the fort, heads bobbing among splashes of red; clippers drilling on the lawn, expending their sweat in his name.

And, most of all, Sunny.

He could set his timepiece by Sunny’s morning workout. The sight of Sunny running through forms, skin glinting in the light of his namesake, is almost as pleasing as the sight of all those other hands at Quinn’s bidding. Sunny is his charm, his totem. Sunny is the lynchpin that holds his estate together. Quinn’s never been a superstitious man — not until recent months, anyway — but he can’t shake the notion that as long as he holds Sunny in his palm, he holds all. Show a man you’ve tamed a tiger and that man will fear you far more than he fears any tiger.

But Quinn knows his tiger is restless. He can feel the leash tightening under his fingers, tensing in tandem with the headaches that come more frequently now, dull pulses that vibrate against the inside of his skull and smear his vision.

He watches his regent from beneath lowered lids, the taste of coffee bitter on his tongue.

  


—

  


“Is she sweet, Sunny, this filly you’re wicking?”

Quinn holds out his arm for the tailor to pin his sleeve. The movement sends dust motes spinning in the stream of sunlight pouring through the study window. Behind the dancing motes, Sunny’s face is stern and unreadable — unreadable to most but Quinn, that is. Most folk wouldn’t note the tightness around Sunny’s mouth, nor the way his eyes flick left, then right, then down to Quinn’s boots where they gleam against the rug.

Quinn smiles as he tilts his face to the ceiling. He rolls his head until he hears that tell-tale click. Delicious release. “Come now, answer me. There can be no secrets between a baron and his regent. I was there when you wicked your first doll, lest you forget, and oh, what a sweet thing she was. Tell me, is this current one as sweet?”

There’s a long silence, the only sound the soft shush of silk between the tailor’s trembling fingers.

“Baron,” Sunny says, finally.

Quinn’s headache taps impatient fingers against his temple. “I asked you a question. Is she a good wick _,_ or is she not? I only require a yes or a no in response.”

“Yes,” Sunny says, “she’s a good wick.” Quinn tilts his head, wanting more. Sunny licks his lips and elaborates: “Sweet and wet as honey.”

“You seem to have developed quite the sweet tooth this past while. You’d better watch those teeth don’t rot clean out of your head.”

Quinn’s known for months about Sunny’s dalliance with the doctor’s girl. Little happens on Quinn’s land without his knowledge, especially when it concerns his pet tiger. His clippers are famous for wicking as hard as they fight, and he keeps the local dollhouses well-funded. Relationships are strongly discouraged. Attachments, be they wick or familial, are a breeding ground for discontent. The clippers’ vow is as binding as a marriage ceremony, and Quinn’s not ashamed to admit that he’s a jealous husband.

And this new girl of Sunny’s is definitely not just any doll. She’s an unknown agent, a malicious chemical corroding Sunny’s hard surfaces. This doctor’s girl, this cog’s quack, has taken a file to his tiger's teeth. Even worse, she’s tugging at Sunny’s leash while Quinn’s grip is compromised.

“They’re always sweet, Sunny, always wet — but women are a distraction, and I hate to think my regent has priorities other than my business on his mind.”

Sunny has the gall to look wounded. “You doubt my loyalty?”

“Loyalty is a finite thing. Once consumed, it cannot be replenished.”

The tailor’s movements have become more rapid as Quinn’s voice has increased in volume. Pins quiver between the tailor’s lips where he holds them as he tucks and folds the fabric at Quinn’s sleeve. He’s making a marriage suit, the finest in all the Badlands. Quinn’s marriage to Jade will be all that his marriage to Lydia was not: resplendent, perfect, and, most importantly, completely under his control.

“I—” Sunny starts, gaze directed at Quinn’s boots.

Then, abruptly, unexpectedly, Sunny drops to his knees at Quinn’s feet.

The sudden movement sends all those dust motes spinning wildly and, as if caught in the storm, the tailor jerks in a defensive twitch. His hands flail. The pin between his fingers scrapes the back of Quinn’s hand, drawing a thin line of blood.

It’s merely a scratch — Quinn’s had worse shaving — but, nonetheless, the tailor collapses to his knees next to Sunny, a poor facsimile, eyes flashing white and wild at the edges like a blown horse’s.

Sunny’s blade is unsheathed and at the tailor’s throat in a movement too fluid to comprehend. A drop of blood wends its way across Quinn’s knuckles, drips between his fingers, falls to the rug in a poppy-red splash. Sunny tilts his head in an unspoken question: _Shall I part this man’s head from his shoulders or no?_

Oh, Sunny’s hands are loyal enough, but what about the rest of him? What about the parts that matter?

“Baron Quinn!” the tailor wails, Adam’s apple bobbing against the gleam of Sunny’s blade. “I— I apologize profusely! I was startled and—”

“Hush,” Quinn says. “Let him up, Sunny. I want this suit finished before I wed, and nobody else in this godforsaken land can muster workmanship as fine.”

“Baron, I offer my most sincere apologies. I cannot begin to express—”

Quinn wrinkles his nose against the man’s whining. “Have this finished in three days, or I might change my mind and have Sunny here bring me your head as a wedding gift. Now leave us.”

The man has witnessed Quinn’s disagreement with Sunny, so he’ll have to be clipped regardless. But not before he finishes the suit.

Sunny lowers his blade. The tailor scuttles from the room.

“You can get up too,” Quinn says, because Sunny’s still on his knees, head lowered. Quinn toes at the spots of blood on the rug. “Fine though it is, I fail to see what’s so fascinating about this rug that you all feel the need to grovel on it.”

The headache has not ceased and now there’s an answering throb against the back of his hand. It’s just a small scratch, but any scratch is enough to reveal the core under the coating. It’s all so fragile, after all: a tender construct stretched taut against feeble supports, so easily breached. One small weakness in a structure might flex and shift, grow cracks and bring the whole tumbling down. He holds out his hand so it catches the sunlight. He so rarely sees his own blood these days, and it’s almost a pleasure to contemplate it. His body will heal this. His cells will work together to close this breach. Obvious wounds are so much simpler, but the hidden ones? Ah, those are the ones that fester and grow roots: the dark mass nestled in his brainpan, his son’s malcontent. His regent’s betrayal.

As Quinn examines the scratch, Sunny leans forward. Sunny’s movements are slow this time, a tentative easing. He brings his mouth to the back of Quinn’s hand, lays his lips on the fresh wound.

The spike in Quinn’s gut is neither tentative nor slow.

“I’m loyal to you, always,” Sunny says. “You know this, do you not?”

“I know more than you think.” Quinn is careful to keep his voice even. “I know how often you visit with her. I know of each and every time you’ve lain with her while you ought to have been patrolling my territory.I know of that tender look on your face when you part from her.” The back of Sunny’s neck looks pale and vulnerable in the sunlight. “You’ve become lax, Sunny, weak and pliable under the hands of this girl. Do you think I honed your edges only for this child to waltz along and blunt them? No. You made an oath. You and I, we had…”

Quinn falters, for, instead of answering to the charge, Sunny has opened his mouth and begun to explore the wound with his tongue. He licks it clean of blood like an animal might, each warm, wet stroke sparking an answering lick of heat low in Quinn’s belly. Then Sunny looks up, lips parted.

“Tell me what I can do to fix this, Quinn. To prove my loyalty.”

_Quinn._

The possibilities unfurl before Quinn like a silken banner, like the red fields that roll out from the fort and into the horizon.

Sunny only calls him by anything but the honorific in the rarest of circumstances, and Sunny has always stayed resolutely on one side of an invisible line. Quinn has taken subjects to his bed. He has taken cogs. He has never taken a clipper whilst he has been Baron. Oh, he has thought about it, of course. How could he not? But to use a blade heedlessly is to blunt it, and Quinn respects his weapons above all else, not least because he was once a weapon himself. Sunny is beyond any carnal desires. Sunny is his sword arm.

Sunny rises to his knees. He leans forward to press his weight against Quinn’s hips, against Quinn’s hardening desire, and buries his face in the loose fabric at Quinn’s chest.

“Let me, Quinn,” he says. He nuzzles past the tailor’s pins and slip-stitches, and it takes all of Quinn’s strength not to jerk as if struck when Sunny’s mouth meets his skin. “Let me prove my loyalty.”

It must be serious, then, for Sunny to offer this card so freely, as if Quinn will just accept it and let lust blind him to this betrayal.

It is a confirmation.

He closes his eyes, torn between lust and anger. So similar, those two emotions: a rush of blood to the head; a heedless determination, repercussions be damned. Both courses will change things, but they’re changing already, shifting and writhing under his grasp, slippery as eels. This solid foundation he’s built has developed faults he could never have anticipated, not least this pang under his ribs at Sunny’s betrayal, this surging arousal at Sunny’s offer.

He will have this, then. If things are crumbling regardless, he must surely take what he can.

“Let me, Quinn,” Sunny repeats against his skin, mouth questing lower.

“Baron,” Quinn corrects, gripping the back of Sunny’s head.

“Baron,” Sunny agrees.

Quinn slides his hand up and around, along Sunny’s cheekbone to the crown of his head. Sunny’s hair parts between his fingers, soft as goose-down. He rests his palm on Sunny’s scalp and pushes. The pressure is light enough that Sunny might duck past it easily, but he doesn’t — he follows the gesture until his mouth is at Quinn’s groin. Quinn is harder than he’s been in a lifetime. The thin silk does nothing to hide his jutting arousal.

He strokes his fingers through Sunny’s hair, considering. “Sway me, then. If I’m well satisfied I might forgive your negligence. Persuade me.” He tightens his fingers in Sunny’s hair and tugs.

Sunny makes a low noise and opens his mouth over the silk. The sight is so pleasing, so satisfying, that Quinn can’t help but squeeze his eyes shut in the hope that his broken brain will sear this image onto its surface.

Eyes closed, he shudders as he feels Sunny trace the outline of his arousal with tongue and saliva, at first tentatively, and then seemingly eagerly. _The tailor will have to remake this_ , he thinks, distantly, as Sunny laps at his length with broad strokes, apparently working to wet the silk from root to tip. Each movement of Sunny’s tongue sloughs a layer of Quinn’s self-control until his eyes are twitching behind their closed lids, until his fingers are clenching of their own accord in Sunny’s hair. Sunny works at Quinn’s cock until the delicate fabric is so sodden it clings like a sheath.

Sunny’s ministrations cease. Quinn licks his lips, waiting. Sunny is motionless under Quinn’s hands. The wet warmth begins to cool on his cock. He opens his eyes, and Sunny meets them.

Sunny’s face is blank, his hands clenched by his thighs. Quinn, who prides himself on being able to read this complex book without even cracking its spine, is unable to decipher Sunny’s expression. It’s like a midday eclipse.

Then Sunny’s face smooths out: his eyelashes lower and he parts his wet lips, mouth still poised at the head of Quinn’s cock. Quinn tilts his head to watch as Sunny unclenches his hands and brings them to Quinn’s hips. Sunny keeps his eyes locked on Quinn’s as he takes Quinn’s silk-sheathed cock onto his tongue and then fully into his throat.

Quinn can’t quite contain his moan. His hips twitch with pleasure as he watches Sunny swallowing around his cock. Oh, he has wanted this. More than he could ever admit to himself. And now that he can have it, even this thin, silken barrier is barrier too much.

He relinquishes his hold on Sunny’s hair to push the silk down around his thighs. Then he grasps Sunny’s hair again, cruelly, and pushes Sunny’s face to his naked groin.

“Prove your loyalty then. How far will you go to serve your baron?”

“To the ends of the earth.”

The lie is a barb to Quinn’s ears. He bites his lip and wrenches at Sunny’s hair until Sunny’s neck is twisted awkwardly, his cheek pressed against Quinn’s cock.

“To the ends of the Badlands, perhaps? Out and beyond?”

“No,” Sunny says through gritted teeth. “Never.”

“No? You deny you’ve been plotting to betray me? To leave me? I, who lifted you from the dust and dirt of the fields and honed you into the finest of weapons?”

Sunny answers by twisting from Quinn’s hold. He grips Quinn’s cock at the base and plunges it into his mouth. Quinn’s groan echoes throughout the room. There is no silken barrier between them now: just Sunny’s warm, wet flesh against his. Sunny flattens his tongue along the underside of Quinn’s length and then pulls back to roll over the head, then in again, wicking Quinn’s cock with his mouth in a steady, practiced rhythm.

The touch of Sunny’s mouth is a lit match-paper to dry kindling, as devastating as any field fire. Quinn could spend right now, merely at the sight of Sunny on his knees, lips stretched around cock. If he could capture this moment somehow, he would. The technology of the old world would have allowed him to replay this scene infinitely; as it is, he must rely on his broken brain to remember this. It is both wrong and right at the same time — the same feeling he had when he first stepped into the Baron’s rooms as a Baron himself and not a slave.

The rush of illicit ownership.

“Sunny,” Quinn sighs, cupping the back of Sunny’s skull, feeling muscles and bone shift and move under warm skin as Sunny works at him, skillful as any doll.

Sunny’s entire form is a study in concentration. Sweat dampens his brow. His head moves with efficient gracefulness. His expression is oddly akin to the blank, single-minded focus he wears when he trains. When he does his duty, in fact.

That’s it, isn’t it? _Get ‘em in, get ‘em off, get ‘em out_ , as the madam of the Blue Oyster dollhouse is so fond of saying. Sunny always takes the quickest route to a resolution. Of course he would apply himself to this chore like he would any other. Quinn has seen Sunny fresh from his sessions with the doctor’s girl, and his expression is the very antithesis of this obedient blankness. The girl seems to be able to pry Sunny open like… well, like a blue oyster, leaving his insides bare for all to see. She touches Sunny in places Quinn could never dream of reaching.

And yet Sunny is bound to Quinn in ways she could never fathom. Quinn could spend in Sunny’s throat right now, submit to these waves of skillfully coaxed pleasure.

Or he could take what he owns.

His fingers tighten on Sunny’s scalp.

“Oh, Sunshine,” he snarls, “this isn’t going to be that easy. I want more than some ten-chip suckjob.”

He tenses his arms to hold Sunny’s head still and takes over with his own thrusts, rutting into Sunny’s mouth. Sunny chokes for two beats, hands slipping down to push at Quinn’s thighs — a thrill of adrenaline as Quinn wonders, _will he resist this, finally?_ — and then Sunny submits to the invasion, dropping his hands to his sides and opening his throat.

Quinn watches, fascinated, as his cock vanishes between Sunny’s lips, as Sunny takes him all without resistance — with skillful application, in fact. The ball-tightening surge of his oncoming release rises up in him, overpowering yet distant, a thing glimpsed through smeared glass. The afternoon sunlight hits the planes of Sunny’s face just-so, gilding him like something precious. And Sunny is precious; he’s perhaps the most precious thing Quinn owns. Surely that’s all this warmth in his chest is? The glow of ownership. Not tenderness. Never tenderness. Tenderness is a disease as dangerous as the mass nestling in his skull.

Just as he has a right to this land, he has a right to Sunny. He will never relinquish his grip.

This is not enough.

He pulls out of Sunny’s mouth unfinished, gives Sunny a shove that sets him back on his haunches. Quinn has an unquenchable fire in his belly, yet Sunny is unmoved. _Dutiful._ Quinn is reminded of the time Sunny split an escaping cog from breastbone to pelvis, exposing the man’s steaming guts to the air. Sunny hadn’t so much as blinked at the act, but Quinn had noted the bone-whiteness of Sunny’s knuckles around the hilt of his sword on the way back to the fort.

Right now, Sunny’s hands are clenched by his thighs, fingers white with tension.

This is a distasteful duty, like so many others.

Quinn tugs his cravat from his neck. He shrugs off the rest of the unfinished wedding suit, stepping from the silken pool on the rug to stand naked before Sunny, cock jutting towards him. In the dry heat of the afternoon, the spit on his cock — _Sunny’s spit_ — cools quickly.

Sunny snaps back to attention, tilts his head to meet Quinn’s eyes, licks his lips. “You didn’t spend, Baron. Let me finish you.”

“Oh, you’ll finish me. Get undressed.”

Sunny blinks, then stands and strips, divesting himself of his leather armor in swift, efficient movements, laying each section of carapace on the chair by the door until he stands shucked and naked on the rug. Despite his obvious distaste, his cock is half-hard against his thigh.

Quinn palms his own cock, rigid as a girder and tacky with dried spit. He listens to the thumping in his skull for a long moment, taking in Sunny’s form. His beautiful tiger, shorn and bare.

“I want you here,” he says, sweeping his hand across the desk, knocking papers and intricate brass contraptions heedlessly to the rug, baring the wooden expanse.

Sunny blinks again, long and slow, and then moves smoothly to position himself over Quinn’s desk, so painfully obedient. The sun through the window splits Sunny’s hide into tiger-striped segments, warring with the black marks of the tattoos.

It’s almost a disappointment. Sunny should fight. Sunny should bare his teeth and refuse. Sunny’s reluctance is written into every line of his form: the stiff arch of his back, the set of his jaw, the pale knobs of his knuckles as they grip the edge of the desk. Yet he keeps teeth hidden and claws retracted.

Quinn reaches for the poppy-seed oil he keeps in his desk drawer, coats his fingers, and then draws his wet knuckles along the crack of Sunny’s ass. Sunny is as motionless as the marble bust of Lincoln in the corner.

“Do you want this?”

“I exist to serve your interests, Baron.” Sunny mumbles the words into his forearm, tensing.

Pulling Sunny’s cheeks apart with one hand, Quinn pours more of the oil over Sunny’s hole, watching, fascinated, as it dribbles down Sunny’s thighs and pools by his feet to stain the rug yet further. ( _Blood and oil; there will be no saving it._ ) Setting the bottle aside, Quinn leans in to coax the tip of his oil-slick thumb past the rim of Sunny’s hole.

At that, he finally gets a reaction: Sunny hisses, his flank quivering.

Quinn smiles. “Oh, I can play the whore, too.”

He rubs the rim of Sunny’s hole with his thumb — still calloused from the fields, even after all these years — circling the tight muscle and dipping in, infinitesimally, at slow intervals, deeper, farther. When, after long moments, he’s rewarded by the quickening of Sunny’s breath, he pushes in with his thumb until it’s seated to the hilt.

Sunny groans, long and pained, pushing back against Quinn’s hand, to expel or encourage, Quinn’s not entirely sure. It doesn’t matter.

“You and I,” he says, “are two sides of the same coin. You do not have my permission to give your heart away like some cheap trinket.” He wicks Sunny with thumb and then fingers, mercilessly, until Sunny is loose around him, gasping against the desk. “You and I can no more do without each other than we could do without any other vital organ. You understand that, don’t you? I’d sooner lop off my right arm than let you go.”

Quinn notes, with no small amount of satisfaction, that Sunny is fully hard now, his cock pressed against the desk. Oh, how bodies betray themselves: unwanted arousal to stimuli, diseases that turn cells against their own hosts.

Still, Quinn wants more.

He pushes at Sunny’s right thigh, and Sunny complies without question or defiance, raising his right knee to the desk, leaving himself fully exposed and vulnerable. Quinn sucks in a breath, taking time to admire the splay of Sunny’s body across the wood. Sunny’s skin glistens with sweat. Each oily handprint on his flank and buttocks is rendered stark by the late-afternoon sun.

He’s perfect.

He’s Quinn’s.

Those black marks on his back are marks of ownership, a web of dark cords that bind them together. Not even Sunny can unpick the knots of over 400 souls.

Quinn runs his oiled fingers over his own cock, groaning in anticipation at the slick slide of his fingers. He will savor this, as much as he’s able. When his cock glistens with lubrication, he presses the head of it to Sunny’s hole, nudging in with the very tip and no more. Sunny’s body accepts him eagerly. It takes all of Quinn’s control not to bury his cock to the hilt, to take and take and take. But this is about more than taking. This is a claim. He stills, panting, both to prolong the moment and savor the prospect at the same time, sliding his fingers down to feel the place where they’re joined as one flesh. _Oh._ Oh, this will be sweeter than any doll.

“You’ll always be mine, Sunny.”

Sunny moans, low.

“Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

“I’ll always be yours.”

With a cruel thrust of his hips, Quinn drives in.

Inside, Sunny is hotter than the midday sun. Inside, Quinn can almost forget the incessant throbbing against his skull. Sunny is so hot he burns everything else to cinder, leaving nothing but white fields of ash that extend out into the horizon, on and on, out of the Badlands and beyond.

Fully buried, his balls pressed against Sunny’s, Quinn grips Sunny’s hips with hard fingers.

“Sunshine,” he croons. Then he pulls out and thrusts in. And again, and again, forcing himself into Sunny like the Widow’s great oil pumps. Sunny’s hands might be clenched and white against the desk in defiance, but his body accepts Quinn — welcomes Quinn, even. Sunny moans into his forearm and pushes back with his hips wantonly, meeting thrust for thrust.

Quinn feels as bliss-sodden as he does with the poppy, but this is far better than any touch of narcotic.

“Touch yourself. This isn’t over until you spend first.”

Obedient as ever, Sunny twists and moves his arm under the desk to tug at his own cock, efficiently.

“Come now, Sunny, let me hear you. How do you sound when you’re wicking that sweet filly of yours?”

Sunny groans through clenched teeth as he fists his own length. The sound sends a thrill through Quinn’s flesh. He moans in unison as Sunny’s body tightens around him, muscles contracting with Sunny’s oncoming release. Quinn unclenches his grip from Sunny’s raised thigh, leaving red marks in the shape of his fingers behind him, and reaches down to wrap his hand around Sunny’s cock, tangling his fingers with Sunny’s. Quinn needs to feel this. He needs to control this. The sensation is almost too much: the hot sweetness of Sunny’s hole, wet and open and slippery with oil; the silken hardness of Sunny’s cock under his fingers.

Sunny has toiled for him. Sunny has killed for him. Sunny has given all to him. Except this.

“I want to hear you spend for me,” he says, wicking Sunny mercilessly, driving into Sunny’s heat, controlling Sunny’s hand.

Sunny grunts. He pushes back from the desk, impaling himself deeper onto Quinn’s cock. “Baron,” he groans.

“Do it, Sunny,” growls Quinn.

Sunny shudders and he comes. He comes onto the desk and around Quinn’s fingers in a warm, sticky flood while Quinn is thrusting into him yet still.

That’s enough for Quinn. Quinn wicks into Sunny thrice more with desperate thrusts, hand still slick with Sunny’s seed and clenched around Sunny’s wet, softening cock. And then Quinn comes with a growl, his cock jerking, filling Sunny with his seed until it spills out around his balls and drips down Sunny’s thighs. Quinn hasn’t spent like this in years. The moment is drawn out and ungraspable, dispersing like poppy smoke. Quinn pumps into Sunny in shallow thrusts until he’s spent all that he can. Yet still he jerks his hips, trying to draw this out as long as he is able, until his cock softens and slips free.

He collapses over Sunny’s back with a groan.

“Sunny,” he grunts into the black marks of Sunny’s tattoos.

Sunny is silent, his flank rising and falling with the slow movement of his breath.

Quinn pulls back to cup his hand to Sunny’s hole, feeling the wetness of his own seed drip from Sunny’s body. This feeling, this sense of ownership: it’s damn near as satisfying as the day his banner was first raised over the fort.

He made this.

He lays his lips to the marks on Sunny’s back, opens his mouth to taste the salt there: sweat expended in his name.

“You’ll always be mine, Sunny,” Quinn says, as he gathers his seed from Sunny’s hole and rubs it into the smooth expanse of Sunny’s back, polishing the tattoos into deeper blackness. This goes far deeper than ink.

Sunny twists his neck to look back at Quinn. His eyes are dark and unreadable, his lips pink and bitten. His fingers grip the desk like a lifeline.

Smiling, Quinn claims Sunny’s mouth, running his tongue along his tiger’s teeth. His headache is silent for once.


End file.
